


Trial by Ice

by Lauren (notalwaysweak)



Category: Fight Club (1999)
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-09-01
Updated: 2002-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:44:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/pseuds/Lauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP. Narrator's POV, revenge on Angel Face for being Tyler's pet. Movieverse, not bookverse.</p><p>Dedicated to Tyler Bateman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trial by Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Fight Club characters belong to Chuck Palahnuik.

Tyler's hand lands on your head, fingers ruffling through that white-blonde hair that can only be dyed - or is it? maybe it isn't -- and he looks across at me with an expression that's almost pity on his face. It makes me stop moving for a second, but then Tyler yells something and I get going again, running out of the alleyway before Jacobs, inside, can come to his senses and call the cops.

The first time I saw you was the night of the fire at the Parker Morris Building. I walked into the living room where you were watching television with the rest, and you relieved me of the beer cans Tyler had thrust into my arms. I watched the news unfurl with the rest of you, but while you knew what had happened, I didn't. I wasn't there. Where was I? Asleep. So I thought. And you looked puzzled when I asked what the hell you'd done, like all the others, but all the same I felt that you knew something more about me than they did.

So tonight, after watching Police Commissioner Jacobs addressing the banquet, stating that he doesn't 'feel there is any need to pursue this investigation', and being bombed by several dozen reporters and colleagues all demanding to know exactly what the fuck this is about, when you stand up to go out to the kitchen, I follow you.

You seem unaware at first, crossing the empty tiled floor, dumping several empty beer cans into the garbage, looking out into the empty back yard for a moment before turning around and almost jumping when you see me.

'Sir.'

'What are you looking for?' I ask. I know little about you, except that you are young -- sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, I've heard, nobody really knows -- and enthusiastic. Enthusiastic I know about. I saw it in your eyes when you were watching Jacobs nearly lose his balls earlier tonight, your mouth hanging a little open, half expecting you to start panting like a puppy-dog.

'Just looking,' you say. Days and days later, it will occur to me that the place you were looking at was the place where Bob was going to be buried. Without the benefit of psychic ability, however, your actions mean nothing to either of us.

The kitchen smells like pizza and spilled beer. I look at the door, look at you, and say, 'We need to talk.'

'Sir?'

'Upstairs.'

The expression that comes onto your face then looks like... it's hard to describe. Partly eagerness, partly dread, partly confusion, partly a knowing look and nod and smile. And you precede me out of the door, and I follow you wondering what it is that you know, or think you know, and what it has to do with me asking you to come and talk with me.

* * *

Upstairs, I head past the bathroom and Tyler's bedroom towards mine, passing you on the landing, and hear your footsteps pause a moment at Tyler's door before following me to my room. I open the door and go in, and you close the door behind us.

The edge of the bed will do as a seat for both of us. 'Sit down.' Even if it reminds me uncomfortably of high-school preliminaries to intimacy. I pat the blanket and you sit, perhaps eight inches of blank blanket between us. Your face is expectant, waiting.

'What do you know about me?' I ask.

You look at me, puzzled. 'You founded the club, sir. You helped us all discover what lives within us. The potential... the power.' Your face is smooth china under that shock of blonde whiteness. I want to smash the china. Soon, soon, we need to fight. But not yet.

'You don't look like you've ever fought. You don't look like you've shed a single drop of blood,' I say. 'What makes you think you've got the right to be part of this? So accepted? Do you think you're the favourite?'

Perfect porcelain, your forehead wrinkles so slightly as you shrug. 'I've shed blood,' you say. 'Last night. Don't you remember?'

Was I at the club last night? I don't remember. But I must have missed this boy's first fight. 'Your first fight?' I say.

Your head dips slightly by way of acknowledgment. 'In a manner of speaking, sir.'

God, your deference and subservience irritates me. And I'm getting hard anyway.

'Get up,' I say. You stand, but even when you're looking down at me, I'm on control. 'Jeans off.' You push the metal buttons through their holes, then push the heavy black denim down, revealing smooth white skin and nearly hairless legs. And no underwear. Your semi-hard cock juts out of a bed of pubic hair several shades darker than blonde.

'Do you dye your hair?'

'No, sir.'

'Oh, for fuck's sake. Stop calling me that.' I kick you in the shin and you falter a step backwards, one hand fluttering over your groin as a ward of protection should I decide to kick you there next time. But your eyes are bright, and are the corners of your mouth twitching into a smile? I think they are.

But then, can I talk? I Am Jack's Raging Libido.

'Now this reminds me of last night.'

I let the comment go since I have no idea what you're talking about, hook my foot around your ankle, and urge you forward. Only when you concede and sit back down beside me, looking somewhat idiotic wearing only a black t-shirt with your cock hanging out from underneath it, turning the hem into a tent, do I stand up and take my belt and my shirt off.

Surprisingly, you have offered no resistance, and even when I loop one end of the belt around my hand and shove you over with my other hand, then bring the belt smacking down onto your exposed arse, you say nothing, _do_ nothing, to stop me. In fact, the whimper I half-hear when the belt makes contact sounds less pained than excited.

'Oh, right. I might've known you'd like that.' I lift the belt again and bring it down harder, until your pale skin is criss-crossed with red weals. Through it all your hands are clutching at the blanket, you're letting out those little whimpers, and I think you actually come close to coming... which is when I stop.

'No, don't stop...'

'Shut up.' I grab your hands, yank them behind your back, and twist the belt around them, not bothering to make it comfortable. At this stage, it doesn't surprise me that what I can see of your face is contorted with pleasure.

I want to know what makes you special. I want to know what makes you better than me, in his eyes. I want to know why you're favoured over me. I want to know, dammit, you little shit.

I don't ask, though. The first rule of Project Mayhem is that you do not ask questions.

I shed the rest of my clothes and settle on the bed beside you, waiting to see if you will move or if you have been subdued. Deciding you're going to stay quiet, I roll on top of you, one hand going down between us, moving my cock to rub against your entrance, then inside. When I bring my hand back up there's blood staining my fingertips, but some of it is dried, stuck there by the newer, redder stuff. I wipe my fingers in your hair.

'Comfortable?' I ask.

You shake your head.

'Good.' I don't want to offer you comfort. I want to offer you pain.

Normally -- not that I've spent all that much time in bed with males in my life, save for a few experimental moments during college -- I'd start off slow, ease you into this, make sure I didn't hurt you. But I don't feel like making this easy on you. I feel like fucking you, whether it hurts you or not, and that's what I'm going to do.

It's different fucking guys to fucking girls. That tight ring of muscle squeezing me, resisting me... not the same. And every time I ram all the way into you, and the head of my cock hits your hot spot, you yelp into the pillow. If your hands weren't trapped between me and you, you'd probably be biting a knuckle by now, or have both hands dug deep into the blanket, maybe with your fingernails cutting through and leaving bloody crescents in your palms.

Either it's this mental image, or just the thought of exacting revenge on you, but I can't stay under control any longer. The pace I have set degenerates into a furious, hard bucking, and you let out a strangled cry into the pillow and I feel you come, feel you squeezing tight around me, and I come as well, jets of semen shooting into you, making everything in there slippery and wet. It means as I soften I slip out of you easily, and I move back onto my knees, kneeling between your spread legs.

It's dark in here, but I can see the mess of blood and semen smeared over the backs of your thighs. Leaning forward, I unbuckle and untie the belt around your wrists, and though you try not to show it, I sense your relief as you slowly sit up and start rubbing your chafed wrists.

'Go and have a shower. You're a mess.' I intend it as a dismissal, but your cheeky grin as you get up and start gathering your clothes -- moving slowly and painfully, but still with all the agility of your youth -- forces me to keep speaking.

'Get anything out of that?'

'Can't you tell by the wet spot you're gonna have to sleep in?' you ask. 'Or is that why you brought me in here, so you didn't have to sleep in it?'

This comment doesn't quite process, so I ignore it. 'Go on, get lost. I'll be seeing you in the middle at the club tomorrow night.'

One of your perfectly groomed eyebrows wiggles. 'Promises, promises. Can we do this again tomorrow night?' This time you don't wait for me to answer, but are out the door with your bundle of clothes, still moving carefully, but no doubt going to sleep soundly tonight.

I flop back onto the bed, narrowly missing the sticky mess in the middle of the mattress. My feet dangle over the edge and my head nearly hits the rotting wallpaper. I stare up at the roof, where last night's rain has leaked through and left a spreading stain on the plaster.

If you can't learn your place this way, then I'm going to have to teach you tomorrow night. One way or another, I can't wait. I want to destroy something beautiful.

And dammit, you _are_. Even stained with blood and whatever else. You _are_.


End file.
